Jaxen had anticipated that the cavalry would not go too far before halting. After a charge, where so many of his men fell, it was only natural for the commander to give that order.
Instead of directly engaging the charge, Jaxen lowered his posture and moved with a different plan. While everyone else focused on the charging cavalry, observing those who had repelled it, Jaxen positioned himself at a place where he predicted the cavalry would stop, moving into position before they did.
He moved before the cavalry, confident that, given the short distance, he could match their speed.
The result of his maneuver was clear.
He struck the calf of the enemy commander, who had his neck pierced and was leaning to the side, kicking the man's leg out of the stirrup and pushing him aside.
The commander fell with a thud. Jaxen, unfazed, casually climbed onto the saddle, gently tapping the horse's neck as if petting it.
The restless steed, which had been thrashing, soon calmed down.
Without looking back, Jaxen urged the horse forward and returned to Enkrid's side.
The sound of hooves echoed in the otherwise quiet air.
The cavalry that had been watching, stunned by Jaxen's calm demeanor, missed their opportunity to strike.
"You damn cat, living it up on your own."
Jaxen's return was met with a teasing remark from Rem.
"Let the crazy barbarian do his stupid fighting," Rem added.
Jaxen greeted him in return, dismounted, and gave his horse a playful slap on the rear.
The horse whinnied and galloped off, kicking up a cloud of dust as it ran.
In the middle of the battlefield, where chaos reigned, the two of them exchanged greetings without a care.
Yet, amid their banter, there was a sharp, almost deadly exchange of glares between them.
Enkrid, lost in thought, suddenly spoke up, reflecting on what had just happened.
"Wouldn't it have been better if the spear had just been swung without being hung from the back?"
He thought it over, realizing the flaw in the tactic. By attaching the spear to the side and securing it with a loop, it had delayed his response. His initial strike had been weak because of it.
"That's why the first blow was so ineffective."
Rem sighed, exasperated by Enkrid's constant rambling.
The brief tension between Jaxen and Rem was now over, with Jaxen shaking his head in disbelief at Enkrid's thoughts.
"Don't you realize that if you brace yourself around the waist, you'll have to withstand the impact from the horse's charge? That would break your back, wouldn't it?"
Enkrid didn't think so, but Rem pointed out that for less-trained individuals, that could be a real risk.
Enkrid understood, nodding in acknowledgment.
The point was clear. The attack had been far too simple and direct. The way the enemy had positioned their spear was ineffective against someone like him. The strategy might work on weaker opponents, but against someone with experience, it was doomed to fail.
Enkrid had unknowingly identified the flaw in the enemy cavalry's core strategy.
In truth, cavalry charges using glaives were designed for cutting down weaker opponents without worrying about counterattacks.
'They should have focused on strengthening their muscles instead of positioning the spear at the back.'
Having faced the enemy, Enkrid saw where improvements could be made.
It was a realization that spoke to his own growth, an understanding of his ability to detect weaknesses in his foes.
It was a sign of progress.
'Good.'
Despite having successfully repelled the cavalry charge, Enkrid's eyes glinted with something different, an intensity that didn't go unnoticed by the remaining cavalrymen. They hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to proceed, but eventually issued another charge.
"Charge! Kill them all!"
In a way, the enemy' chivalry commander displayed remarkable courage, willing to charge once again despite the disastrous outcome of the previous attempt.
Enkrid, however, calmly drew his sword, ready to face the charging cavalry once more. His previous success wasn't due to luck, but to skill—something he knew he could replicate.
"Is this some sort of insane trap?" Marcus muttered, watching the scene unfold. Across the battlefield, the enemy's chivalry commander, Olf, cursed the foolishness of his men charging again but made a quick decision—retreating now would be far more foolish.
"Charge!"
The infantry under Marta's command began their advance, but the cavalry, having just lost so many, was quick to retreat. The retreat wasn't solely the result of Enkrid's actions; it was clear that the morale of the advancing infantry was already shattered.
Before the battle reached its full chaos, Enkrid, as a commander, had already devised a formation. Though it wasn't an elaborate one, it was well thought out. His goal wasn't to create a defensive strategy, which would lead to heavy casualties in a battle with a smaller force. Instead, he focused on inflicting more damage to the enemy quickly, thus reducing his own losses.
He quickly assigned positions: "Ragna, you're at the front. I'll take the right. Rem, take the left. Jaxen, cover the left flank, and Audin, you take the rear."
The formation was simple, designed to keep everyone in close proximity, so they could help each other in case of need. Enkrid didn't expect much resistance from Ragna, Saxen, or Audin, but Rem... Enkrid was curious if he would actually listen to orders.
If Rem didn't, Enkrid had already mentally prepared to switch positions. Ragna would take the front, and Enkrid would cover the right. He knew it was possible that Jaxen and Audin might not follow orders either, but there was no time to argue or attempt persuasion—fighting would begin as soon as the battle was joined.
As Enkrid issued the formation, he had already made up his mind on how to handle things.
"Ready," Rem said, as he moved to the right side. The spacing between them was about three paces. Close enough that their swords wouldn't cross, but they could still support each other if needed.
"Got it, three paces," Jaxen confirmed, taking his place on the left.
Ragna moved forward a couple of steps, and Audin took the rear.
"Not going to run off on your own?" Enkrid asked, half surprised by how easily Rem had followed his orders.
"What do you think I am, an idiot?" Rem replied, irritated at the suggestion, clearly focused on the enemy infantry charging toward them.
There was no more time to ask questions. The infantry were already charging at full force.
"Move forward!" Enkrid called out, his voice firm. Despite the chaos of the battlefield, his words were clear and confident.
Ragna fell in step with Enkrid. No one questioned the center of their formation—Enkrid was the leader.
Could it be? Did Rem actually listen this time?
It seemed so, though Enkrid wasn't sure if it was because of his leadership or because Rem had his own reasons for staying in line.
A cacophony of cries and shouts rose from the enemy infantry as they charged forward.
"Kill them all!"
"Die, you idiots!"
"Fucking bastards!"
Some soldiers displayed fear, others madness, and some even remained calm as they charged. The mix of emotions was evident in the army's morale.
Enkrid didn't rush forward. He increased his pace slightly, but it was a controlled, steady pace. His troops matched his step, and their morale was significantly higher than that of the enemy.
The rhythm of the battlefield was different now, as Enkrid's forces stood firm, ready for the oncoming clash. The discipline and focus of his army contrasted sharply with the disarray and panic in the ranks of their enemies.
Enkrid felt the tension in the air as the battle intensified.
"Die, you bastards!" The shout from his own soldiers echoed in the background, and Enkrid faced the first of the incoming enemies.
The shockwave from the cavalry charge was still lingering, but the second wave came with an even greater force. The first clash had left them momentarily stunned, but the second was different—it was even more deadly than the first.
The cavalry was pushed back again, retreating after suffering devastating losses. If they had charged again, they would have earned the reputation of being the dumbest army on the continent. The soldiers who had once shown madness and fervor now had nothing but fear in their eyes.
The sound of clashing metal filled the air, and a hot breeze of battle swept through the ranks.
Enkrid swung his sword downward, striking with precision—a vertical blow aimed directly at the head of the first soldier. The blade cleaved through the skull, splattering blood and brain matter in every direction. Even Enkrid's leather helmet was splashed with gore.
Without hesitation, Enkrid's sword sliced horizontally, cutting through the chest and left arm of another soldier.
"Focus!" Enkrid thought, making use of the full potential of his weapon. His sword's exceptional cutting power allowed him to tear through the soldiers' defenses with ease, carving a path through the advancing wave of enemies.
He wasn't concerned about his formation at this moment. The only thing he cared about was fighting effectively and quickly. His intent was clear: to break through the enemy ranks.
As he surged forward, the others, including Rem, followed his lead. The charge was relentless, like a knife cutting into a soft apple. Soon, they were deep within the enemy's formation, surrounded on all sides.
Was this a bad tactic? Not necessarily.
"Brothers, to heaven!" Audin, covering the rear, shouted. His fists and mace moved faster than the wind, smashing through enemies in his path.
"Boom!" "Crash!" The sounds of blows landing and enemies falling filled the air.
On the right, Rem cackled, swinging his axe in all directions. The axe cleaved through enemy swords, shattered helmets, and split armor apart.
"Come on, more of you!" Rem yelled, his face and helmet drenched in blood, his gray eyes gleaming with excitement.
As fear swept through the enemy ranks, their frontlines hesitated.
"These bastards!" a voice yelled from the left.
A new figure appeared—an enemy captain by the name of Grek, who had earned General Olf's trust. Enkrid didn't recognize him, but Grek wasn't the type to underestimate his opponents.
Grek wielded a heavy, six-sided mace with great skill. It was a powerful weapon, designed for wide, sweeping strikes aimed at breaking the enemy's defense. The blow he aimed for Jaxen was deadly, aiming to strike his collarbone at an awkward angle. If Jaxen dodged, the formation would collapse; if he tried to block it, the force would be too much to handle. The disparity in strength was clear.
Enkrid observed with a sidelong glance but wasn't concerned.
"Not a chance," Enkrid thought confidently.
It seemed Grek was targeting Jaxen. Despite the chaos, Grek deliberately avoided Rem and maneuvered around to the left to challenge Jaxen instead.
The enemy soldier, with reddish-brown hair, swung his sword at Jaxen's mace.
If you couldn't avoid it, you could simply deflect it.
With a sharp clang, Jaxen deflected the heavy mace with his slender blade, sending sparks flying from the impact. His face remained emotionless as he effortlessly diverted the blow. He was still calm, executing his technique with precision.
For such a high-level deflection, Jaxen's skill in swordplay was undeniable. His mastery of the basics of swordsmanship was evident, and the way he controlled his blade made the maneuver appear effortless.
"Ha!" Jaxen grunted, preparing for the next move.
Grek, despite his intentions, attempted to overpower the direction of his mace with sheer strength.
"Idiot," Jaxen muttered under his breath, and Grek, clearly hearing it, shot a glare at him.
The soldier's insults seemed to only fuel Grek's resolve, and he slammed his foot down hard, intending to force the mace down onto Jaxen with overwhelming power. If Jaxen tried to deflect again, Grek planned to rush in, disarm him, and crush his neck with his own hands. He was confident in his hand-to-hand combat skills.
In Grek's mind, the battle's outcome had already been decided. He saw himself swiftly breaking his opponent's neck in his mind's eye, and he repeated the image over and over.
He swung the mace down, only to suddenly find himself spinning as the world tilted. Looking down, he saw Jaxen—the same soldier who had insulted him earlier—already thrusting his sword toward another target.
Before Grek could react, a soldier's sword pierced through the visor of his helmet, skewering his eyes and skull. Blood exploded from his head as he let out a death scream.
"Why can I see this?" Grek wondered, his vision clouding as the blood splattered.
His body, now powerless, collapsed to the ground with a sickening thud, spreading blood in all directions. The red splatter painted the ground, as though a bucket of paint had been overturned. Grek's armor was similar to his own, but that was the last thing he saw before darkness claimed him completely.
At the same time, Ragnar, seeing that the soldier who had targeted Jaxen was being pushed away, swiftly took his opportunity to strike.
No need for precision cuts, just a solid, powerful swing—Ragna unleashed his "Steel Cut."
The soldier's neck was protected by tough armor, but it was no match for Ragnar's blade.
The sound of the sword cutting through armor and bone was distinct, and the soldier's head flew from his body, almost seeming to blink in the air before it fell to the ground.
Ragnar, caught up in the thrill of battle, barely gave the fallen soldier a second thought.
He reveled in the chaos and enjoyment of the moment.
'These are some fun enemies,' he thought.
The others, including Enkrid, all contributed to this wild chaos in their own way.
How had they all ended up here, together? It seemed like an accumulation of coincidences, a series of events, one after another, led to this moment.
Perhaps the Goddess of Fortune had a hand in it all, but Ragna doubted that. Life wasn't just about chance; it was about fate. Whatever the cause, if it weren't for Enkrid, he would not be here now. That was fate.
But what about Rem and the others? Their presence mattered too. Even if they had started out in a life of monotony, they had sharpened their skills, bringing them to this point.
Luck and fate aside, the thoughts faded into the background. What mattered now was the rush, the thrill of the fight.
Joy. Excitement.
Ragna was engulfed in the feeling, and it surged through him, making his sword strikes more intense and rapid. As he became more and more immersed in the battle, Enkrid too had to adjust, syncing with Ragna's pace.
Together, they were like harbingers of death.
To the enemy, the two of them were something beyond just men—they were a force of nature, something incomprehensible that struck terror into their hearts.
"Ahhh!"
"Please, no!"
"Monsters!"
The screams were no longer just battle cries but cries of despair and fear.
As the battlefield turned into a symphony of death, the once-strong enemy forces began to falter, their spirits broken.
A former squad leader, who once tried to outsmart Enkrid on the supply route, had now joined the front lines. As he observed the carnage, a deep sigh escaped his lips
Had he survived, he could have been a great commander and an exceptional soldier. However, he too met his end.
The axe, which had approached so swiftly, struck his chest and passed through him.
"Crack."
His chest caved in as his heart ruptured. A terrifying pain surged through his entire body. With bloodshot eyes, he fell, his life slipping away.
By the time the number of dead exceeded a hundred, the tide of battle had irrevocably turned.
"Shit."
Olf instinctively knew they had lost.
No, it was more than an instinct. It was a brutal reality.
"Five knights-in-training?"
Damn it. How well had they hidden them?
Olf was not just discouraged; he felt a chilling dread. Five knights-in-training—ther was no full knight order here, and they had still managed to pull this off.
No, even without being junior knights, the power of those five individuals was unparalleled. How had they hidden such a force?
Olf could not accept this.
He had not lost in battle.
This was a political defeat. A victory for those who knew how to hide their cards.
It was Marcus, through Enkrid, who had concealed this power so well, leading to this outcome.
"Keep the chaos going."
Amidst this, a faceless officer ran forward, giving orders.
There was no point in trying to maintain control anymore. The flow of battle was no longer his to command.
From this point on, his life, his fate, and his every move were in Marcus's hands.
Beyond morale and the chance of victory, everything on the battlefield was now under the influence of a politician.
"That bastard really is something."
How could anyone understand Olaf's disillusionment, having been struck down by a force he thought he could easily handle, relying too much on his subordinates' strength?
Was this really strategy and tactics at play?
All this over the clever concealment of five soldiers' worth of power?
If someone were to name this battle, the only fitting title would be:
Marcus hid those Madmen.